


I see you now

by Mtraverandujar



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:12:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mtraverandujar/pseuds/Mtraverandujar
Summary: Bill sees Laura.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I don't own these characters. I just cannot get enough of them and I imagine what I haven't seen.
> 
> This fic is for Amie Martin, who told me months ago that she felt like reading a Kobol fic written by me. I told her it would happen... eventually.

He watches her.

He watches her as she walks before him. Wet clothes, damp hair, her shoulders bent forward, her glance fixed on the terrain so as not to hit a rock with her foot, or the root of a tree rising from the ground, stumble and fall. He likes to have her back, even if he is not sure she thinks of it that way herself.

He watches her from the corner of his eye when she walks beside him, level with him. Steady footsteps, the Book of Pythia clutched to her chest like her most precious possession, the air thick with silence except for the chant of some creature which reminds him of the sound of birds back in Caprica.

He turns around to watch her every now and then when she is walking behind him, just to make sure she follows him close, just to check she is doing fine. He stops, and turns around, and waits patiently as she comes closer. He never dares to ask if she is OK, if she needs something, if she would like to stop for a while. She never seems so, and he prefers to figure out from observation.

He is not sure it is appropriate to show he is concerned. He is not sure it is appropriate not to show it. She does not seem to care either way. She is silent, and calm, and determined. She holds everything inside of her. Fear, pain, exhaustion. Hope. Everything. She is a woman on a mission. She just walks.

He sees it all so clearly now he wonders how he could miss it all these months. Maybe the simplicity of her approach to life (to whatever is left of it, he reminds himself) has become more apparent the moment he has seen her trekking through the forest, on the surface of this planet, power suits and heels replaced by explorer trousers and boots, casual shirt and a raincoat not quite her size. His own concern for her wellbeing surprises him but just a little, as if it was something natural and he would only need to get used to it. It is new, and it is not.

_I never asked for your forgiveness._

That line would have driven him mad just a few weeks ago: now he could even laugh at her sass, her nerve. He can appreciate the pride and determination nuancing the soft tones of her voice. He likes them, he admires them even if he is certain he will not always agree with her in the future. But he does not need a perfect president: that is something he cannot afford, he cannot have. Not even now, in the worst moment of their lives, after the massive destruction of their world. That just does not exist. The moment he has come to terms with it, the moment he came back from the dead to see the mess the fleet had become under martial law (this is, without their president whom he himself had deposed), the moment he figured out that fixing things and moving forward was more important than being right, that moment something clicked in place within his mind and he gained a new perspective.

She does not intend to undermine his authority: she just will not let him or anyone else get in the way of the mission she believes in. Nothing personal about it. She just will not stop: it is your problem and yours only if you try to force her to. Face the consequences.

He had underestimated her. She has grown much stronger in the fleet's hearts and minds (even in his crew's, he cannot but admit given the recent events). Now, if he cannot have a perfect president, he himself would rather have one with these qualities. A dishonest, coward, indecisive president, this is something he could never put up with. A determined, committed, smart one, this he can support even when she is wrong.

Their future remains to be as uncertain as it was before he got shot. However, his heart is warmer and filled with a different kind of peace. He finds himself wanting to hold on to these feelings. If only for a change. He is surprised he would not even find it particularly hard if it was not for one specific piece of news he learned before getting to the surface.

_President Roslin has terminal cancer._

So she pursues this mission for everybody else. Also for him. Especially not for herself.

He could tell himself the news has left him unaffected. He could tell himself it has not played its part in the sharp rise his admiration for Laura Roslin has taken in the last few days. But that would be a blatant lie. Now, as they make slow, painful progress under the canopy of the trees, straining their ears for alien, threatening sounds, pretending they can breathe normally in the humid air, searching for an elusive door which might or might not be hidden somewhere in this never ending jungle, there is a question outstanding among all the other questions which populate his mind.

He wonders how she can.

"Commander."

He startles a little and turns around to the gentle sound of her voice. He waits for her to catch up with him. She does so in three graceful strides.

"Madam President."

Her green eyes meet his. She smiles briefly at him in passing and keeps walking. He resumes his walk beside her.

"You seem lost in thought."

"That might be because I'm actually thinking", he replies casually.

Laura slows down a little and Bill can tell she does it on purpose, just waiting for the last person of the group to overtake them. Now they have fallen a little behind: not so far from the others to risk losing track but enough to be able to talk with some privacy.

She lays her hand on his lower arm, and he cannot tell if she does it for comfort or for balance.

"What's worrying you, Bill?"

Her voice is a whisper. Her usage of his name feels natural. Bill glances at her for a second before looking down to the terrain again. But that instant his eyes lock with hers is enough for him to tell her question is genuine. Her concern is not faked. Her tone is that of a confident, a partner. Almost that of a friend. It feels intimate.

Maybe she has forgiven him, too.

Bill clears her throat.

"How… how are you feeling, Laura?"

The moment the question falls from his lips, heavier and darker than he has intended, a shadow descends over her features. He finds himself missing her previous half- smile instantly. Silence creates an empty space between them, but it does not feel uncomfortable. Not anymore. Bill waits for her to speak. The time she takes to reply is more eloquent than any other answer she could provide. Bill lets the sad meaning of that silence sink in.

Laura hums and nods.

"How long have you known?"

"Saul told me the moment Cottle was sure my life was no longer at risk. A couple of weeks."

He swallows. He is having a hard time figuring out something else to say. Laura nods again. She keeps walking by his side and he can tell she is in deep reflection now, her face calm, her eyes focused, as if she is about to address a fleet issue which demands careful consideration.

"I was waiting to tell you. I knew I would have to at some point but we weren't exactly friends. I feared you would use it to question my capacity".

"To question it _further_ , you mean."

She glances up at him and finds his welcoming grin. This is a joke. A sad one, though, but a joke nonetheless. Maybe the first they share. The fact that they can find some amusement in this is proof that they are past the worst in their fragile alliance. Now they can only grow stronger. What Bill said, he meant. He hopes she knows that.

She chuckles softly.

"Yes. To question it further. But you have recovered and come down here I am grateful for that, Bill. I feel better, safer, with you here. And I don't have much time left so it was about time to break the news to you anyway. I will keep going until I can't and that day will come soon enough."

So this is it. Right after the apocalypse, she has found what to live for: service to humanity. She lives for this. Until she dies. There is nothing else left for her. And the reason she can keep doing it is that this mission is where she draws her strength from. For Laura Roslin there is no hope. No future. No nothing.

Bill wishes he could help with that.

"You have not answered my question, Laura."

She shoots him a questioning look, eyebrows arched.

"How are you feeling?"

For the first time, he knows she is not afraid of telling him the truth. But it does not mean that admitting it is going to be any easier for her.

"Well, I'm… tired, I guess." She offers vaguely. "But I have to keep going. For as long as I can. I try to focus on that and forget everything else. Forget the things I can do nothing about."

 _You are still not answering my question, Laura_ , he thinks to himself. But he knows better than to say it aloud. He does not push further. He is not afraid she will get angry at him if he does: he is just not sure he is ready or willing to see a crack on his President's strong façade. Not quite yet. That will have to wait.

If only it could wait indefinitely.

Somewhere between the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat, all of his other questions get stuck.

He feels her hand on his forearm again, and now he can tell she does it for balance. He takes that hand in his and winds his other arm across her waist to help her up, and he knows he is doing it for comfort.

He pulls his arms back. They keep going.

"Laura" he ventures.

She turns her face to him. Her expression is clean, like an open window.

"I want you to know you can count on me. I am and will be by your side. When I don't agree with you, I will let you know and we can… discuss it if you want. Well, we might even argue, but then I will support you no matter what."

The hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her lips but he can also read a similar amount of sadness in her eyes. She cocks her head to the side and speaks her mind.

Like she always does.

"And this I owe to the fact that I am dying…?"

It is half a question, half an statement. Bill regrets his words instantly. They have not come out right. This is as far from what he really means as it could possibly be. He stops cold and waits for her to mirror his movement.

She does. Her glare on him, harsh and hurt, ready to hear how he pities her.

"No. This is because you've earned it. And because I have understood your decision was not against me. It was just despite of me. You were just doing what you felt you had to do."

She bites her lower lip. Is it him, or are her eyes moist? Suddenly, she looks almost fragile. As if she is ready to fall apart and trusts him to collect her pieces. Something inside him melts dangerously at the sight of her. Well, he should not focus on that. He is just speaking the truth, let Laura deal with her emotions: offering her his shoulder to relieve her sorrow would be an intrusion, crossing a line he is determined not to tread upon. He will not risk her suspecting he pities her, or does not respect her, ever again. Even if she would eventually let him get closer to whom she truly is someday, to get a closer glimpse of her mind and heart, this day has obviously not come yet. It is still too soon. And in a few weeks it will be too late.

No matter how badly he is discovering he would like it to happen.

Leave it to his arms to ache for his permission to wrap around her.

Laura does not try to hide her emotion: she just manages to keep it at bay, to stay under control while the turmoil floods her features. She smiles and, strangely, it only seems to make her sadness grow wider. Her eyes sparkle with the reflection of unshed tears.

"It is exactly that." She pauses. "Thank you."

"You've earned my trust, Laura. And my respect."

_And my affection._

Their gazes meet and linger. Their smiles are coy, wistful, pretty much alike. She lets out a shuddering breath.

And she starts walking again.

He walks beside her for a while in a companionable silence. It almost feels like they are happy to keep each other's company. It is new. It is comforting. He holds her elbow to help her, to carefully indicate her where it is safer to tread. He pulls her up with the sheer force of his arms when the path becomes too steep. He discreetly scrutinizes her face searching for a trace of pain, distress, or discomfort.

There is none.

Instead, he finds himself making a mental note of the lines around her eyes, traces of a history he would care to know about. The mole on her cheek, the paleness of her skin bringing out the pink on her lips. Her lashes like a curtain that keeps him from seeing her eyes, thus banning him from her soul. Strands of her hair, wet with rain and sweat and darker than usual, get stuck to her temples and the sides of her neck.

He startles at his own sharp intake of breath and forces his attention back on the path ahead.

After a while, Laura starts walking a little faster and gets ahead of him with a few longer strides. Once she has taken a little advantage, she resumes her steady pace. He holds back the impulse to pursue her or call her name. To ask her what is wrong.

He should have known. He better get used. This woman is used to walking alone.

That is OK. He will keep her distance. He will have her back.

She does not talk to him again until a few hours later, when they have already set up the camp for the night. She is lying on the floor, fully dressed except for her boots and her raincoat, squirming to get inside her sleeping bag. He is standing a few meters ahead, his gaze lost over the line of the mountains fading away with the last rays of light.

"Does it hurt?"

He looks at her over his shoulder, puzzled. She shakes her head.

"The wound. The scar." She points with a finger. "Your chest."

Oh, that.

"A little. Not much." He answers after a beat.

"So it does hurt."

He turns around to face her. She is smiling at him, her head tilted to the side. It is a rare, knowing, understanding smile which lights up her eyes. Warmth spreads from his gut to all the corners of his body. He smiles back and walks towards her. She seems to have succeeded in the task of getting inside the bag. She is sitting down there, damp and dirty and a mess of ruffled clothes. Hardly presidential and yet so dignified.

Relaxed, even.

"I'm so happy you made it." she states simply, emphasizing her words.

He allows himself a moment to enjoy what he has just heard.

"Will you be OK?" he worries.

She looks around, lifts her arms and lets them fall in defeat.

"This is as good as it is going to get, so… It will have to do".

The same could be said of her health. He feels a pang in his chest when the image crosses his mind. She seems to accept both things rather easily. It is him who is having trouble.

"Bill."

He realizes he is staring at her, his mind miles away and still with her, with the version of her which is about to disappear. But he wakes: she is actually there. In front of him. Yet.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

She shrugs.

"This, you know. Betraying you. Even if I thought it was the right decision, I never meant to betray your trust. To break our agreement."

Now, this is unexpected. It is not like he did not know it already. However, there is something deeply meaningful about hearing her say it aloud. It is the final confirmation he is no longer misreading her. He cannot help a small smile to form on his lips.

"Remember, you don't need to ask for my forgiveness."

"That doesn't mean I'm not sorry. Or I don't care."

She has left him speechless. It is not the first time, but it is certainly the first she manages to do it with a gentle apology instead of a smart, acute remark, or a direct, ruthless order.

His eyes lock with hers for a few seconds. Then he nods.

"Goodnight, Laura. I'll be right here. Don't hesitate to wake me if you need something."

She narrows her eyes like she is acknowledging his words and maybe wondering something too. Before he can ask, she composes herself.

"Thank you, Bill. Goodnight."

Bill walks away to his backpack to retrieve his own sleeping bag. He hears Laura tossing and turning behind him, the rustling of the fabric, her soft grunts as she searches for a comfortable posture.

When he finally turns around and faces her again, a shining lamp in one hand, the sleeping bag in the other, she has gone silent. She is still and gives him her back.

He watches her. He watches her sleeping form, and it scares him that she looks much smaller, painfully smaller. Vulnerable, if that word could ever apply to this particular woman. He takes in her disheveled hair, the curve of her shoulder, the valley of her waist, the mountain of her hip, the length of her legs slightly bent.

He wonders if she is still awake. A few seconds later, her chest starts rising and falling rhythmically, providing a silent reply to his unspoken question. He gets closer to catch a glimpse of her face. He only sees from her cheeks up: the rim of the bag is pulled up to her nose. She has curled up. Maybe to fight the cold. Maybe to fight the pain. Maybe to fight other demons.

Maybe that is how she usually sleeps.

He realizes he has been watching her under the dim light of the lamp, mesmerized, for only the Gods know how long. He notices his sleeping bag still hanging from his arms. He comes closer, as quietly as possible, and lays it down beside her. Close enough to feel her warmth, far enough to keep decorum, for her to approve of it if she wakes before him and sees him there. He gets rid of his boots and his jacket and slips heavily inside the bag.

Yeah, the scar hurts. But there is another scar he does not even wear yet which is hurting him already, and the pain it inflicts is far worse.

He rolls to his side and faces her back. He watches, listens to her steady breathing. He is not sure how it has happened but he knows a door has opened for her in his heart and he is no longer able or willing to close it. How can he have been so oblivious to all those details, those nuances in her he now sees crystal clear?

If only he could relieve her. Comfort her somehow.

Following an impulse, he reaches out and lets his hand linger over her head, for a few seconds, not daring to stroke her hair, not able to draw back either.

_Get a grip, Commander._

His hand has a will of its own. But even this sassy hand knows how badly she needs her rest and would not wake her for the world. His contact is light as breeze, his caress is barely there.

Laura keeps breathing.

He threads his fingers around the loose strands of her hair resting flat on the floor. He tests the wetness of her locks with his fingertips, caresses them with his knuckles.

"Rest, Laura" he murmurs.

Then he draws his hand back. He smells it. It gets straight to his gut.

He switches the lamp off. He closes his eyes and drifts into sleep enveloped in her scent and listening to the raindrops as they start tapping once more on the thin canvas above their heads.

 

 

_**As some of you know I am not a native speaker... meaning all mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading!** _


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